Lullaby of Laudanum
by MissTempleton
Summary: Mrs Collins is beside herself with worry, and Mac is struggling to believe the evidence of her own labours. Naturally, they both look to Phryne and Jack to find the answers.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

A man and a woman were lying on a rug in their garden in the late afternoon sunshine. Their heads were pressed closely together, but the passion of their intent was disguised by the gentle tones of their words, addressed to the third occupant of the rug, who sat facing them, looking with interest from one face to the other and back again.

"Papa" said Detective Inspector Jack Robinson, with a smile.

"Mama" suggested The Honourable Phryne Fisher, with a competitive edge to her tone.

"Pa-pa"

"Ma-ma"

There was a pause while Elizabeth Jane concluded her internal debate. She looked down at her hands, unwilling to witness the result of her actions.

"Babababa" she confirmed diplomatically.

She needn't have worried. Both parents laughed resignedly. Jack rolled on to his back, his head snug against his daughter's chubby legs; she patted his nose affectionately, recalling that the last time she'd done it he'd laughed, and having high hopes that he might do it again because it was a Nice Noise.

Phryne got up to refresh both their glasses with some of Mr Butler's best lemonade from the jug on the wrought-iron table standing in a shady corner of the garden. Delivering Jack's glass to his outstretched hand, she then sought refuge on a recliner and closed her eyes.

Peace was dull when it lasted too long, but it had only been a day since they'd cleared up a particularly taxing robbery, and Jack deserved the change of pace. She dozed idly, while a corner of her mind danced around the possibility of persuading the Inspector to go to the Green Mill later on. She'd taken delivery that morning of Madame Fleuri's latest work of genius, and was anxious to give the bewitching combination of jet beading and diaphanous silver underdress an airing. The difficulty, as ever, would be persuading Jack that he wanted to go to a smoky nightclub instead of spending the evening curled up with a book. Perhaps if she showed him the dress … no, cancel that … perhaps if she promised to show him the dress _only_ once they got the club …

She was drifting into a pleasantly scheming reverie when there was a scuffle in the house. Raised voices were heard in the kitchen.

Jack leaned up on his elbows, and they exchanged mystified glances. Then through the garden door burst a very hot, flustered and tearful Mrs Hugh Collins.

"Dot!" exclaimed Phryne, getting to her feet and catching the younger woman by the arms.

"Oh, Phryne!" she wept, which had Jack on his feet too. Dot had never found it easy to call her former mistress, business partner and friend anything other than Mrs Robinson or Miss Fisher. The lapse told its own story.

"It's Hugh!"

She appeared to crumple on the spot, and Jack stepped forward just in time to catch her. He took two swift steps and placed her on the recliner Phryne had vacated. Phryne perched on its edge, and took Dorothy's hand in both of hers.

"Dot, what is it? What about Hugh?" she asked urgently.

Dorothy wiped a careless sleeve across her eyes, and gulped a breath to try to compose herself to talk. The words when they came, though, were no more than a harsh whisper.

"He's gone."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

"Gone?" asked Jack. "Dorothy, he hasn't gone anywhere. He was at the station when I left at lunchtime."

Phryne glared at him. "Jack, why don't you take Elizabeth up to the nursery?" she suggested firmly. He took the hint and scooped up the child, carrying her indoors while Phryne turned back to her still-hysterical partner. "Dot, deep breaths. Take your time. Why do you think he's gone?"

The younger woman drew a shuddering breath.

"He was supposed to be home at three. He telephoned to say he was just going to run an errand but that he would be home soon after that." Talking was helping; focussing her thoughts was forcing her back to the ground, though it was still a visible effort.

"At four o'clock I telephoned back to the station, because he hadn't turned up." She raised a woebegone face to Phryne. "They said he'd left early, to su-su-surprise me …" the tears were starting again. "Miss, he's been gone since two o'clock this afternoon!"

Phryne glanced at her wrist watch. After six. It was still early for Dot to be so worried. Not wishing to trivialise the very real concern the young woman clearly felt, she spoke gently.

"Could he not perhaps have just been held up?"

"No, Miss," she said. "It's a special day for us. He was going to be home by three, because today's the anniversary of the first time we went out, properly, and we were going to … go to … the pictures …" the last words were swallowed in a hiccupped whisper as tears overcame her again.

Phryne's heart sank. At the very least, it was surprising, though Dot's hysteria still seemed an extraordinary reaction. As she sat with her arm around Dot's shoulders, helplessly rubbing the arm in its sensible cardigan, she cast in her mind the possible reasons why Reliable Hugh might have suddenly become Unreliable Hugh. As she did so, she heard the faint sound of the ringing of the telephone inside the house.

"Dot, really, you mustn't let this worry you so much," she tried. "I'm sure there's a rational explanation."

"No, Miss, I just know there's something wrong," insisted Dot, taking out a drenched handkerchief and dabbing it ineffectually at eyes and nose.

A step was heard, and Jack reappeared in the doorway. Gone was the happy, contented father. His face was grim.

"Jack, what's wrong?"

He debated inwardly for all of five seconds, but there was no point hiding the truth. "Dot, I'm sorry. That was City South."

Dot caught her breath, and the hand that was still in Phryne's gripped tightly. Jack continued in matter-of-fact tones, reporting the matters of fact.

"Someone just handed in a police helmet at the station that they found in an alleyway off Dorcas Street. Number twelve-eighty-four."

Hugh Collins' number.

"My men took the person who found it back to the spot, but there's no other sign. I'm sorry," he repeated. "We've already started searching the area and questioning the locals."

He tried to remain cold, clinical, effective; but once he allowed his glance to rest on Dorothy's face, he crumbled. Taking the few steps towards her, he crouched by her chair and caught her in a hug that allowed neither of them to breathe; it didn't matter. Oxygen was almost an unwanted intruder.

Phryne watched them for a moment, then took charge.

"Dot, I'm going to send Mr Butler over to your house in the car. You're going with him, and you're going to pack bags for you, Gid and Meggie and you're all moving in here."

She held up a hand as Dot started half-heartedly to protest. "I insist," she said firmly. Then, more gently, "Dot, darling, it makes sense. Miss Stubbs can still come here to help, but with all the children to look after, we need to pool resources." Then she offered a half-smile. "You know that Elizabeth loves them both already. Why shouldn't they have a little treat for a day or two?"

Then crossed her fingers. Please, God, let it be only be a day or two until he was found, safe and well. Or less. Not more.

Jack's eyes were on her, warmth returning at the gesture of humanity in the face of such a shock to their close-knit family. She met his gaze.

 _What else would you have me do, Jack?_

 _You could try to make me love you less, because right now it's hard for me to love you more._

She pressed her lips together tightly and helped Dot to her feet. Supporting her into the house, she handed her over to Mr Butler, explaining the mission and receiving his instant approval. As Dot turned to go, Phryne caught her hand again for a moment.

"I'm off upstairs to get the nurses to make up beds. Get Meggie and Gid to bring toys and books, Dot. Tell them it's a holiday. We'll make it a holiday."

The words were warm, as was the voice delivering them.

If it shook at all, it was only for an instant.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Hugh Collins came to slowly, and was immediately aware of being deeply uncomfortable. He was lying on his side, on a cold floor. Concrete? Probably. It wasn't a clean floor – there was grit under his cheek when he moved his head slightly. He breathed in, and promptly began a coughing fit, which wasn't helped by the fact that his hands had been secured behind him in some fashion. The air he was trying to breathe was musty with a smell he couldn't immediately identify.

The coughing also showed him that he had a severe headache, which didn't respond well to the jarring of his whole body. He risked slitting his eyes open, and then wondered if he had been blindfolded too – but no, a very faint source of light from under a door told him that he was in an unlit room, and it was after dark.

After dark? Dottie! He groaned. She was expecting him home long before now. She'd be beside herself. He added heartache to headache, and it was the incentive he needed to start working out how to improve matters.

As his eyes became accustomed to the half light, he realised that he was in a very small, windowless room. Sitting up, though, would be better than lying, and – though his feet were also bound – he managed to roll on to his knees and shuffle to the wall, where he rolled again into a sitting position. Extending his neck thankfully, he stifled a yell of pain as the back of his head made contact with the wall, alerting him to the reason for his headache. It was hard to tell the scale of the bruising, but eventually he discovered a comfortable position (well, less painful, anyway), leaning his temple against the cool of the wall.

He was disgusted to find himself exhausted by such minor exertion, but rested for a couple of minutes, trying to recall what had brought him to this place, wherever it was.

He'd gone to pick up some shopping, that was all. The storekeeper had asked him to step through to the back room, and then everything went blank.

His head was aching even more with the strain of trying to remember when he became aware of low voices on the other side of the door.

"I'm still saying, all he was doing was a bit of shopping!"

"We don't know that, do we? I reckon he's onto us. Sure as anything."

"Might not be. Not letting him see me without me scarf on me face, anyhow."

Although his head was swimming and he was fighting nausea, Hugh felt marginally better for hearing that. If they still cared about him seeing their faces, they were still hoping to keep him alive. Just as well, he thought – Dot would kill him if he got killed.

Then he realised how idiotic that sounded, and winced even as he grinned to himself.

There was a rattling at the door, and he closed his eyes to feign unconsciousness. Maybe if they thought he couldn't hear them, they'd tell him more?

The door opened, but there were no words spoken – only the sound of heavy breathing from the doorway, before the door slammed shut and was locked once more.

He tried not to let the darkness affect him. What would the Inspector do? he wondered. Probably not get caught by one of the oldest kidnap tricks in the book, he thought wryly. But then, he'd had no reason to believe he was a candidate for kidnap.

The smell in the room had become a little stronger with the opening of the door, and he tried to identify it. Flowers? Not a flower he could recognise, anyway. He wasn't much good at flowers. Dot loved them, though. When he got out of here – wherever 'here' was – he was going to buy her a bunch. An armful. A barrowload.

Having reached the full extent of all the evidence his senses could offer, he decided to allow himself a break, and slipped into an uneasy doze once more.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

They had left The Esplanade as soon as it could reasonably be arranged, but by the time the Inspector and Miss Fisher arrived at Dorcas Street, darkness had already fallen. While Phryne poked around the alleyway with her torch, Jack bearded the young constable from his team who was still stopping passers-by, asking if they'd been in the area earlier in the afternoon.

"Anything, Dixon?"

The young man shook his head. "No sir. We've not found anyone who was here at around the time Collins disappeared." He was tense, and his voice higher-pitched than usual.

"Dixon, the best we can do is the job we always do," said Jack, feigning a calmness he didn't feel. "We'll find him, and do it with solid police work. You're doing well – keep going."

Dixon's shoulders relaxed slightly and he was emboldened to ask a further question. "Sir, would it be better if I came back tomorrow at about the time we think Collins was here? It's a busy place, but maybe if someone comes past at the same time every day, they might remember seeing him."

"Excellent idea, Constable," came the enthusiastic response from behind Jack's shoulder. Miss Fisher had drawn a blank and joined the rest of the investigative team under the street light. "And I've had another thought, Inspector." She looked at him, waiting to be invited to share.

"Please, Miss Fisher, any suggestions are welcome," he said unhesitatingly – and didn't even pause to think how times had changed since he used to do his best to keep her at arm's length from his investigations.

"Why not see if Vernon Bushby will let you ask his listeners?"

Jack whistled silently.

"It's not Vern I'd have to ask – it's the Chief Commissioner," he muttered half to himself, mulling the idea.

"If _that's_ the only hurdle, leave it to me, Jack!" she offered.

Vernon Bushby worked for the local radio station, 3SK; Jack had had a brief spell of putting his microphone voice to use for the benefit of the populace of Melbourne, but after he inadvertently discovered that it was apparently an incentive for crime to sound attractive on the radio, it was deemed an Inappropriate Activity by the Higher Powers in Russell Street, and his crime-fighting guest slots came to an abrupt halt.

"Let me help," Phryne urged. "If I call Bill Cooper and tell him you don't want to do it, you'll be on air within the hour."

All it took was a wry smile from him, and she was off to his car, waiting impatiently to be driven to City South's telephone. In the event, it was barely more than half an hour and two telephone calls later, and Jack was sitting in his familiar guest chair, watching Bushby simultaneously end a music track and cue a sponsor's message.

"Is your baby a Bartholomew Baby?" asked a young man with acne, spectacles and an improbably matinee-idol tone of voice. "Always ask for Bartholomew's Patent Gripe Water – it's a Happy Home that Holds a Bartholomew Baby!"

"Welcome back," said Bushby smoothly. "Tonight, we're recalling, for one night only, the Lowdown on the Lowdowns – yes, we've got Detective Inspector Jack Robinson of Melbourne's finest with us, and he's asking for our help. Inspector, tell me more?"

The nerves disappeared, and Jack slipped naturally into his radio persona. The appeal for witnesses was brief, but heartfelt, and Phryne watched approvingly through the studio glass.

Bushby cued up more jazz, and sat back. "One of your own, Jack," he remarked.

Jack nodded. "One of my best men. Young family." He stood, and reached for hat and coat. "If you want to repeat any of those messages later in the show, Vern, I'll be grateful. I want him back."

"We all do," concurred Phryne, opening the studio door to let him out. "'Night, Vernon dear," she called, and blew the broadcaster a kiss which was cheerfully and nimbly caught.

They said little on the short drive back to The Esplanade; both sleuths were casting about in their minds for any other avenues they could try.

As they got out of the police car and walked hand in hand to the front door, Phryne stopped for a moment, and spoke quietly enough that no-one in the house would be able to hear.

"Could it be a kidnapping for ransom?"

Jack shook his head. "It could be anything – but I doubt it's a ransom attempt. What kind of ransom would you get for a police constable?"

They faced one another for a moment, and Phryne chewed her lip. The answer, of course, was Very Little – even if that meant everything Dot had. Neither of them wanted to think about what the response would be from the authorities to a ransom demand for one of their men.

Jack squeezed her hand, and led her to the door. There were already signs of new occupants – pint-size galoshes were lined up alongside the adult versions, and a forgotten wooden train was sitting under the telephone table. As they hung up their coats and turned to the parlour, a familiar voice greeted them acerbically.

"What time do you call this? My goddaughter went to bed ages ago."

Phryne smiled despite herself, and walked ahead of Jack into the room.

"Hello, Mac. Helped yourself to the Scotch, I see!"

Mac, however, looked drained and didn't smile back.

"I needed to see you both. About a death."

Jack froze on his way to the drinks table and Phryne's heart caught in her throat. "Mac, not …"

The doctor stood and grasped her friend's hands. "Don't be an idiot. I heard Jack on the radio talking about Hugh's disappearance – Phryne, if I'd found him on a slab, I'd have told you before now."

Phryne slumped into a chair, and then looked up with thanks as Jack thrust a whisky into her hand.

"Then what, Mac? Who's died?"

Mac sat again, and looked into the fire. Phryne knew that look; it was the one that spoke of professional detachment. It hadn't been wheeled out all that often since 1918.

"A baby. Actually, three babies." She looked at them blankly. "I need your help."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

"I know it's tough for a baby to survive the early months," began Mac as they settled around her, drinks in hand. "Heaven knows I do. The number of babies we lose in the first three months is depressing. But the first one was nearly seven months old, and when I examined him post mortem, I couldn't find any sign at all of the cause; it was as though the heart had just decided to stop beating."

She sipped her whisky and continued. "What got me worried was the fact that I had two more deaths, of the same kind, within the space of two weeks. Three babies, all past the higher-risk period, all of whose hearts simply stopped."

"Any common factors in the family backgrounds?" asked Phryne. "Disease, poverty?"

Mac shook her head. "On the contrary, these were all nice, middle-class families. No, it's not that." She drained her glass and stood. "I don't know what it could be, but it can't just be coincidence. I know you'll be spending all the hours looking for Hugh, but if you can spare just a little time to speak to the families, Phryne, I'd be grateful."

Phryne looked at Jack, who nodded. "You should, Phryne – you'd do it better than me, and we don't know that there's a case to answer yet. Come to City South when you've finished and I'll let you know what progress we've made. There may have been some responses to the broadcast by then."

"Very well," she agreed. Then said, in a low voice, "Say nothing to Dot, Jack. She's got enough to contend with."

So it was that Phryne was at the door of a small house in Richmond the following morning. Just as Mac had said, the garden, though tiny, was well-kept, and the windows shone. Whatever this child had died of, neglect seemed an unlikely cause.

The door was opened by a thin, sallow-faced woman in an apron over a black dress that, though neat, was not smart, and was already showing the signs of continuous wear.

"I'm sorry," said Phryne automatically. The woman showed no reaction as she stumbled into the rest of her explanation. "My name's Phryne Fisher. It's about your little boy. I was asked to come and see if I could help … I'm sorry," she repeated, finding herself unusually at a loss. "Is it … Mrs Morland?"

"It is," said the woman. "And you can't." She made to close the door.

"Please," Phryne raised her voice a little as the door was closing. "There have been other children … other babies …"

The door closed.

 _Well done, Phryne. Tact And Diplomacy, Kindergarten Standard, Outright Fail_.

She looked at the door, hunched her shoulders and turned to walk back to the gate.

"Wait."

Behind her, the door had opened again, and Mrs Morland stood looking round it.

"What other babies?"

Phryne walked back up the path and stood, regarding the other woman cautiously.

"May I come in?"

A moment's hesitation, and the door was opened fractionally wider; Detective Inspector Robinson would scarcely have recognised the humility embodied in the person passing through it.

Tea was produced, in the Good China; no biscuits were available, but the heel of the loaf had been sliced to a translucency reminiscent of a certain cocktail dress that had yet to be worn, and scraped with enough butter to pass muster. Phryne took both, politely, and declined both milk and (precious) sugar.

Dignity was a luxury she recognised and treasured as jealously in others as in herself.

"What other babies?" repeated Mrs Morland. She had not taken any bread, but drank the tea as though it was nectar.

"There have been two other children of about your son's age," said Phryne gently. "I am a private detective – " at which Mrs Morland frowned and moved to place her cup down, but held on to it at Phryne's calming gesture, "and a personal friend of the coroner, who is concerned about what might be a trend, but has nothing tangible to report to the police. She asked if I might make some … preliminary investigations … to see if there is a pattern that can be explored."

Again, the mention of the police had Mrs Morland tensing up.

"I don't know what you think I can tell you," she said tersely. "My boy died. We don't know why."

"Did he die here, at home, Mrs Morland?" asked Phryne.

"Here, in his bed. He'd only just got off to sleep at last."

"He wasn't a good sleeper?"

"Oh, he was fine at first. An angel. So good, straight to sleep straight after a feed. But then he was teething, and it made it hard for the poor lamb." Mrs Morland's handkerchief was in her hand, but the motion was reflexive; she was reliving a story that had been told countless times to the kitchen wall and the tears were over. "I gave him some of the gripe water and it got him off eventually. Then when I went to check on him …" she swallowed, and stood to go and look out of the window.

"So … he'd had a feed?" asked Phryne, mind casting frantically for what she knew of food poisoning. Surely Mac would have spotted that?

"Yes," replied Mrs Morland distantly. "Just me, I gave him a feed myself. He nipped me with one of his new teeth, and I told him off."

The wall hadn't heard that one, and the tears started.

"So … there was only your own milk that he'd had."

"And the gripe water, yes, I suppose."

Phryne had a feeling of grasping at straws. "Do you still have the bottle of gripe water? I could get it tested, to see if there was something in it there shouldn't be."

"I don't know," she said dully. "I threw it in the bin."

Miss Fisher had the bit between her teeth, though – she was not going to exit this encounter empty-handed. Even the hint of a fight would make a difference to this bereaved mother, she guessed.

"Let's find it."

The job was messy, and a pair of fairly decent kid gloves were not going to be seeing the light of day again, but the bottle was found and tucked into Miss Fisher's capacious coat pocket.

The gloves discarded, she took Mrs Morland's hand in both of her own.

"Thank you. And I'm sorry."

"Do you have children?" The question was baldly asked, but Phryne's wedding ring had been revealed when the gloves came off.

"Yes. An adopted teenager – and a baby daughter."

Two pairs of hands clasped, and understanding exchanged.

It was an unusually thoughtful Miss Fisher who entered City South a little later. With no Constable Collins to greet at the barrier, she wandered through to the Inspector's office, and sat, uninvited in the chair opposite his desk.

He looked up at her, and opened his mouth to speak, even as a voice was raised in the outer office.

"Where's Robinson? I heard him on the radio. I reckon I know who's got Mr Collins!"


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Phryne beat Jack out of the office door by a short head, to see a familiar face presented at the desk.

"Tom? Tom Derriment? What do you mean? What are you doing here?" she asked.

The young boxer turned to her, his brow clearing as he recognised a friend.

"Miss Fisher … er, sorry, Mrs …" he stumbled over the greeting.

"Miss Fisher will do fine, Tom," Phryne assured him hastily. "What's this about Hugh Collins? Do you really know where he is?"

"Reckon so." The young man recalled his purpose, and his face darkened with anger. "If it's not the Footscray Warriors, I'll eat my mum's hat."

Jack stepped forward. "Hopefully it won't come to that, Tom – you'd better come through to my office."

They ranged themselves around Jack's desk, Phryne perching on its edge as Tom refused to sit.

"So, why Footscray?" asked Jack.

"It's the only way they can win the tourney this weekend," said Tom. "It's the return bout. We beat them on our turf last month and we'll beat them this weekend on theirs, but we need our coach."

"You really think they'd kidnap a serving police officer just to win a boxing match?" asked Jack doubtfully.

"You don't know the half of it," replied Derriment. "They broke a bloke's arm from the North Melbourne Gym. Made out it was an accident. Like it's going to be an accident when a bloke falls down a flight of stairs and six of the Warriors were the only people there and none of them saw a thing."

Phryne and Jack exchanged glances.

"It's got to be worth a quiet chat at least, Inspector," she remarked, knowing full well that Jack would build a case for a search warrant in the blink of an eye if he could.

"Okay. Let's go," said Jack, reaching for his coat and hat. As Tom made to follow them, though, he held up a hand.

"Tom, we'll let you know how it goes, but I'm not about to start a new war by taking you with us. No," he repeated firmly as the young man began to object.

"But you might need muscle, Inspector," offered Tom desperately.

Jack quirked a reluctant grin. "I'll pass over your assessment of my physical fitness, Tom, and assure you, the conversation we're going to have won't need muscle. Leave a telephone number, where we can reach you, at the desk."

The boxer was plainly not happy, but could scarcely labour the point any further, and the two sleuths headed by common consent for the police car (the chances of the Hispano making it in and out of the rather colourful environment in Footscray unscathed being … limited).

The Inspector opened the door to what appeared essentially to be a disused warehouse, and allowed Miss Fisher to pass ahead of him into the gym.

She glanced around her, absorbing the atmosphere in the Temple to Testosterone, and smiled beatifically at Jack, who rolled his eyes.

"Try and behave yourself, Miss Fisher," he muttered _sotto voce_.

"I always do, Jack," came the sunny reply. "Just not necessarily in a way that you approve of."

Their arrival had caused much of the activity in the room to cease, and a loud check suit wrapped inadequately around the vast bulk of a man rather older than the rest made its way towards them.

"What do you want?" the occupant of the suit asked aggressively.

Jack tipped his hat back on his head.

"Detective Inspector Jack Robinson. We're looking for a missing police officer."

The news didn't appear to disturb anyone in the room particularly, and certainly not their interlocutor.

"And you thought we might be starting a collection of them and came to volunteer? No thanks, copper," he sneered. "We don't need your sort round here."

"I'm delighted to hear it," replied Jack calmly. "What about coaches? Are you starting a collection of those too?"

"Dunno what you mean."

"The missing officer is Senior Constable Collins."

"The coach for South Melbourne Gym?"

"That's him."

Check Suit snorted. "This is the last place you'd find him – he'd have more sense than to show 'is face here."

"He might not have had a choice," replied Jack levelly.

The bruiser laughed dismissively. "We're going to beat South Melbourne hollow on Saturday – we don't need no dirty tricks to pound on 'em." His words were met with muttered approval and support from the rest of his audience.

Jack scanned the room, seeing a degree of suspicion of a police officer in most faces that was entirely normal, but no hint of guilt.

Phryne decided it was her turn to pipe up. "It wouldn't hurt your chances if Collins failed to show on Saturday, though, would it?" she remarked slyly. "You'd have everyone saying you only won because he was missing."

Check Suit's eyes narrowed. Then he grinned.

"Awright, I'm game. Whaddaya want?"

She gave him her sassiest smile in return. "What's your name?"

"Me mum calls me Alvin. This lot call me Al."

"And I'm Phryne Fisher. Consider me your honorary mother, Alvin. Not right now, but probably quite soon, I might need a search party. Quite possibly a … muscular search party. Can I count on your … support?" she asked airily.

He looked her up and down in a way that tested Jack's composure sorely.

"No worries, Miss Fisher – we'll give you a boost, won't we, lads?"

The ribald responses had Miss Fisher giggling even as the Inspector engineered her hasty exit.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

The police car was discovered intact, and it was only as Phryne got into the passenger seat that she remembered what was in her coat pocket. She took the small bottle out and examined it pensively.

"What have you got there?" asked Jack.

"Gripe water," she said slowly, turning the bottle over in her hands. "From one of the bereaved mothers Mac asked me to interview." Briefly, she summarised the conversation. "So I think I should take this to Mac ... gosh!" She broke off sharply.

"What?"

"Jack, can we go back to Dorcas Street please?"

He said nothing but glanced over his shoulder and changed course.

"This bottle. Bartholomew's Patent Gripe Water. It's from a pharmacy in Dorcas Street. And I don't believe in coincidence."

Jack didn't either, and put his foot down in a manner worthy of Miss Fisher herself.

There was a queue snaking out of the door of the pharmacy when they arrived. Exchanging glances, they joined the end of it and eavesdropped shamelessly.

"I hope they've got some left by the time I get to the front," said one lady to her neighbour. "I don't know what I'll do if they run out."

"Oh, I _know_! Me too!" replied the other. "My Marnie can't sleep without a spoonful these days, the poor love."

"And the other ones aren't anything like as good," complained a third. "I don't know what that secret ingredient is they go on about, but it's like a miracle."

Jack started forward as though to enter the shop, but Phryne pulled him back.

"No, Jack. You don't want to alert them until you know what we're dealing with," she urged in a low voice. "Let's take what we have to Mac and see if she can track down the 'secret ingredient'."

He shot a frustrated glance at the shop doorway, but knew in his heart that she was right. If there was a connection with Hugh's abduction, they needed to know much more.

Mac, though pleased with their progress, was mystified. Looking at the bottle as though it would simply shout an answer, she thought out loud.

"Most of these things contain a bit of alcohol. Not enough to kill anyone, though – even a baby. If ... there's some other active ingredient ... maybe the alcohol would mask it ..." She shook her head. "Leave it with me."

They did so, but reluctantly. Fortunately, the wait wasn't long. By the time they were walking through the door of City South, Dixon was talking on the telephone and looked up as they arrived.

"The Inspector's here now, Doctor. Stay on the line please."

He covered the handset with one hand. "The Coroner for you, sir. Shall I put it through to your office?"

Even as he was speaking, though, Jack strode across the room and snatched the receiver from the man's hand.

"Mac? It's Jack. What have you got?"

"The clue was in the alcohol, Jack," she said, and he could hear the tension in her tone. "There are some things which work even when dissolved in alcohol."

"What things, Mac? What is it?"

"Jack, it's opium. They're getting babies addicted to opium."

There was a short silence, then she spoke again.

"When you've finished with the people who are doing this, Jack, I want their genitalia for medical research. And I don't really mind whether they're dead first."

"Understood. Thanks, Mac."

He replaced the receiver, gazed at it sightlessly for a moment, then walked slowly through to his office. Phryne looked to the constable, who shrugged his shoulders helplessly, and she followed Jack. When she got to his office, he was sitting with his elbows on the desk and his hands steepled over his mouth and nose as he gazed into empty space.

She sat opposite him and said nothing, knowing that she didn't need to ask to be told the substance of his conversation with Mac. She was alarmed, though, when he sat back and reached for the waste bin beside his desk, holding it in one hand and swallowing hard.

Then the moment passed, and he was able to tell her, in a voice groggy with emotion; and she had the same thought process.

"If it had been Elizabeth …" she whispered. He only nodded. Then straightened, and squared his shoulders.

"But it isn't; and if Hugh Collins was in there trying to buy it for Meggie or Gid, it's not them either. We're looking for opium – and if he's alive, I reckon that when we find the opium, we'll find Collins too."

He raised a brow. "Phryne, I know it's a sensitive question to ask, but he might understand – could we approach Lin Chung?"

"Oh, don't worry, Inspector," she declared. "Lin is going to tell me everything he knows about the current state of the opium trade in this town."

She was already on her feet and heading for the door, but on a thought, turned back to him.

"You might want to stay here, Jack. Lin will need delicate handling, and would probably prefer the police not to be present."

He gave her a quizzical look. "And you, Miss Fisher? Presumably you'd rather I didn't cramp your style?"

Her lips twitched, and she came to dodge round his desk and plant a smacking kiss full on his mouth.

"Jack darling, you ought to know by now that your presence enhances my _style_ enormously. In all sorts of ways. I'll be back in a jiffy!"

The Fisher Sashay was then proudly deployed, and had the desired effect on its audience of one.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

"Silver Lady – to what do I owe the pleasure?"

Former lover and concubine embraced in remarkably circumspect manner; if the placing of his lips in greeting was on the precise point at which her cheekbone was sharpest and most sensitive, only a churl would take exception; and Phryne was never churlish. Especially not when she had an unpleasant task to perform.

"Lin dear, I need your help, and you're not going to like it – I warn you now."

He tilted his head. "How could I not like anything which brings you to me?" he asked politely.

She grimaced. "I think you'll find a way, because I remember what happened last time I asked you about the opium trade."

He stiffened, and the shutters fell across his eyes.

"Even now, Miss Fisher, you assume that which you have always been told is not only false but insulting?"

She laid a supplicant hand on the table before his. "All I assume, Lin, is that there is little which goes on in our docks which escapes your notice – especially certain ships from certain ports." The shutters became slatted blinds, with a hint of light showing through. "Am I so wrong?"

He took a delicate sip of tea – a stalling tactic as they both knew, but she allowed him the courtesy as a gesture in making up for her vulgar assumption.

"Not wrong, no," he said at last, replacing the cup on its stand. "Your husband's colleagues have done a great deal to reduce the volume of trade, but opium is still coming in."

"At the docks?" Phryne leaned forward, alert.

"Not here, no. I think …" he met her eyes with a hooded gaze. Loyalties, however stretched by laws and human decency, were still loyalties.

"Please, Lin," she begged. "I haven't told you why, but you should know. This isn't about foolish adults being caught in a sinful web. It's innocent children, Lin. Babies." Rapidly, she outlined the suspicions they had amassed. She had barely finished her first sentence when he interrupted her with one word.

"Williamstown."

She caught her breath, and gazed at him for a moment; then leaped to her feet, and leaned in to cup his face in her hands, before snatching his hand in both of hers and kissing the fingers ardently. No more words were spoken; he stood politely as she hurried from the room and the Hispano might as well have had wings for the journey back to City South.

Jack was all set to release the combined might of the police force of the State of Victoria when he heard the suggestion; it was only Phryne's calm words of common sense which stayed the hand which was already reaching for the telephone.

"Jack, we don't know what their plan is for Hugh. If you go blazing in with all your forces, you might sign his death warrant before they scoot out of the back door," she argued. "I've got a better idea …."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Three buses pulled up in a back street of Williamstown, scarcely more than a mile from the harbour, an hour after dark that night. One disgorged Tom Derriment and the South Melbourne Gym contingent; the second was packed with Footscray Warriors. The third was driven by Cec Yates, who was trying simultaneously to drive and to keep the peace among his motley crew of red-ragger wharfies. He almost found it in himself (but not quite) to envy the job of Bert Johnson, his fellow cabbie and sometime employee of the redoubtable Miss Fisher. All Bert had to do was keep Mrs Collins quiet and calm at 221B.

On reflection, Cec was glad to be exactly where he was.

The samples of opium had been passed round and dutifully sniffed. "Just in case you don't know what you're looking for, lads."

Having been told the full story behind the search, the samples were even returned – respectfully.

Within minutes, a small army of foot-soldiers was swarming the quiet backstreets around the harbour of Williamstown. They were down at heel; they were scruffy. They were not inclined to attract the eye, and the eye slid past them quite willingly – especially the bulk of some of the boxers, with whom even the most belligerent of passers-by decided they need not argue.

Residential streets were lent scant attention, but the commercial structures near the water were all given a very delicate once-over.

For fully half an hour, there was nothing but pacing streets and peering in windows.

Then – a distinctive two-toned whistle.

And a whistle in reply.

A chain of communication made its way swiftly back to Detective Inspector Jack Robinson and the Honourable Phryne Fisher (yes, he had genuinely tried to suggest she might want to stay with Dot, but she gave him such a pitying look that he hadn't bothered to press the point) at their station by the trucks. They sprinted off, and came to a warehouse which was surrounded by a posse that was doing its utmost not to be a lynch mob.

Miss Fisher afforded them entry to the office door, while Tom, Alvin and Cec covered the rear of the building. Once inside the office, Jack led the way to a second door under which a single strip of light shone.

Oh-so-softly, Jack turned the handle to open it. It squeaked a little as it opened; they decided simultaneously that cover was blown and were through it in an instant, police-issue and pearl-handled revolvers respectively drawn.

They needn't have worried. A cat-like tread certainly wasn't going to rouse these two monuments to crime – or even, come to that, a herd of stampeding elephants.

Perhaps it was the opiates in the atmosphere that had them snoring in stentorian chorus.

Nonetheless, the Inspector and Miss Fisher took the precaution of snapping on the handcuffs simultaneously.

That, at least, woke the miscreants, but as Miss Fisher was already letting in reinforcements while the Inspector held them covered with his gun, their expostulations were swiftly silenced. Cec, Tom and Alvin then entertained their captives with opinions of the proper treatment of those who killed infants for money, while Jack went to telephone City South from the office, setting off the raid on the pharmacy.

Phryne, in the meantime, was running all over the building, and finally came to a locked door in the basement.

"Hugh?"

"Miss Fisher? Is that you?"

More work for the lock pick, and sharp knife to cut the ropes binding him, and a rather disreputable-looking Senior Constable was brought blinking into the electric light. He didn't smell particularly attractive, but Miss Fisher clearly thought he looked Just Lovely, because she gave him the most enormous hug before dragging him by the hand from the noxious depths of the warehouse.

The Inspector was less demonstrative, but as handshakes went, it was Quite Firm. The various representatives of law and order then filed, in a lawful and orderly fashion, out into the street.

Even as they stepped into the road, a taxi with Bert Johnson at the wheel raced up and screeched to a halt. A door slammed, and a small whirlwind dressed in tasteful autumnal colours whisked past Jack and Phryne and hurled itself at Senior Constable Collins. He didn't dodge it – he opened his arms to it, though its sheer momentum rocked him on to his heels.

" _Hugh_ " breathed Dot into his neck.

" _Dottie_ " whispered Hugh into her hair.

She reached up to frame his face with her hands, searching his eyes for signs of mental or physical strain. Finding both, she pulled his head to hers and kissed him soundly. The Polite World looked the other way, while Phryne, the red raggers and a variety of athletes from Bantam to Heavyweight watched approvingly.

Alvin turned to Tom.

"Right. You've got your coach back. So when we beat you on Saturday, we'll be winning fair and square."

Tom narrowed his eyes.

"Bring your best. You're going to need it, Al."


	10. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

The Collins Contingent having returned happily to its home territory (with not a little relief on the part of both hosts and guests), peace reigned supreme at 221B The Esplanade, and the joint Heads of the Household sat on the couch, with books. Phryne reminisced over Agatha Christie's version of the Blue Train, comparing it unfavourably to her own experience on her way to meet Jack Robinson, who was, perforce, Coming After Her. Her feet were tucked underneath his legs. They were each savouring a Lagavulin.

"Jack?" She quirked a toe to get his attention.

"Hmm?"

"Do you want another one?"

"Whisky? I've not finished this one. Come to that, you've barely started yours. I know you've got some lost time to make up for after that nine months off, Miss Fisher, but steady on."

"Not a whisky. Another child."

His head snapped round at that, and he narrowed his eyes. For a moment he said nothing at all. Then he closed his book and put down his glass, in case any more earth-shattering events were about to occur.

It was as well to be careful with Miss Fisher around.

"Do you?" he asked.

Another pause. Even longer.

"She _is_ rather marvellous," remarked Phryne, hesitantly. She was gazing at him very fixedly.

"From what I hear of the amount of time it took Gid and Meggie to sleep through the night, I'd say our Elizabeth is little short of miraculous," Jack agreed blandly. There was a right answer to the question she'd asked, and he was damned if he knew what it was. He decided to cast for more clues. "Though, there are two of them, so they probably kept each other awake. For the company."

There. Two options. Company for Elizabeth, or more sleepless nights. Which would she choose?

"Oh! Yes, of course. They would have chatted away all night, wouldn't they?" she said. Chattily. Then, switching her gaze to the fire, "I suppose it might be … quite a disruption for Elizabeth … if we were to have another … do you think?"

This wasn't getting any easier. Was she really angling to try again? It didn't seem likely, but – Mrs Robinson had made something of a specialism of The Unlikely. Marriage, for example, sprang to mind.

He gave up guessing, and went for honesty. Putting down his book, he reached across and plucked her drink and book from her hands, placed them on the table and drew her round to nestle across his lap, her head resting on his arm. For good measure, a gentle kiss was placed upon her lips – a precautionary olive branch.

"Phryne, my love, a few years ago, I was living alone. I was estranged from a wife I hadn't had more than a civil conversation with in months; I'd decided that the best I could hope for was to be a half-decent copper who might end up on his deathbed with the complete works of Shakespeare in his head and the Bach Forty-Eight at his fingertips."

Her hand reached to examine his fingertips; he could almost see her assessing their capacity (or lack of it) for Preludes and Fugues. He let her play, and carried on, in a lower voice, because it seemed that emotion would do that.

"Since you – erupted – into my life, you've turned my grey to gold. You've loved me, and taught me to love you. Every single day has been brighter, more sharply focused, because of you. On top of everything, you've given me the child I imagined was impossible."

He removed his hand from her caress, and traced a thumb gently around her lips. Her eyes were sparkling with what might have been a sheen of tears.

"Phryne, I struggle to imagine a life any more perfect than mine, right now. If you want to have another child, I have to say I'm amazed, but we'll do our best – if that's what you want. Otherwise …" his eyes darkened as she opened her mouth to draw his thumb between her teeth, the sparkle of her eyes becoming a glint of pure wickedness, "I think we should allow our use of the bedroom to revert to … purely recreational pursuits."

She drew her head back, allowing his thumb to fall from her lips and turning her head to kiss the palm of his hand.

"Recreational? Playing games with _me_ , Jack Robinson?" she asked sternly. He nodded slowly. She slid across his lap and drew herself, with immense dignity, to her feet, before stalking to the doorway, where she turned and grasped the two door handles, drawing them towards her.

"In that case …" she said quietly, stepping over the threshold and pulling the doors to frame her face,

" _Last one to the boudoir's a rotten egg!_ " The doors closed quickly, and a delicious chuckle accompanied scampering feet up the stairs.

The Rotten Egg grinned, downed his drink, loosened his tie, and gave chase.

A/N

As the boudoir door closes and the rest of us are left looking at each other and trying not to listen to the squeals and giggles (and not from the nursery, where Elizabeth Jane sleeps the sleep of the so-far-mostly innocent), I feel I should add my voice to the others in this lovely world that are (no, that wasn't a thunderclap, it was just Phryne's dressing table stool falling over. Do pay attention) raised in support – I SAID RAISED IN SUPPORT – sorry, didn't mean to shout, I think they've stopped now – where was I? Oh yes, in support of the Kickstarter project to get our Silver Lady, the Honourable Phryne Fisher, to the Silver Screen.

It's tremendously exciting (no, not _that_ sort of exciting, Jack. Oh, for heavens' sake, all right, carry on, but I am _trying_ to keep people's attention here and you're not helping. Nice robe. The whisky's over there, behind the gin bottle, _where you left it_. And find a comb, Inspector, _do_ ) to see the outpouring of support from all of Miss Fisher's fans around the world, and I can't wait to see what Every Cloud brings us. I'm in – are you?

Oh, heavens. I don't think the rug in the boudoir is designed for that kind of treatment. Surely that's got to be sore on the knees?

Tell you what, let's all go to the Windsor and leave them to it. I'll tell Mr Butler they can join us at the Green Mill later, Jack still hasn't seen That Dress, after all. Come on, folks, the Negronis are on me!

Yours aye,

Miss T x


End file.
